area?’
‘Philadelphia born and bred,’ Byrne said. ‘Although I don’t get out to Elkins Park as much as I’d like to.’
Delacroix crossed the room. ‘I shot this at high noon. The sun was dead center, and cast no shadow.’
For the next few minutes, as the two men discussed the photographs, Jessica glanced around the living room and dining room. The space was nowhere near as Spartan as Robert Freitag’s living quarters. This place was sloppy, but comfortable – books stacked in a corner, remote controls on the couch, a rolled-up bag of Doritos rubber-banded on the coffee table. Through the opening into the kitchen Jessica saw a day’s worth of dishes in the sink. She looked at the steps leading to the second floor. They were being watched by a rather portly tabby cat. Jessica usually smelled cat litter, but her nose was still filled with the scent of compost from the backyard.
‘You know, Beth Sholom was Frank Lloyd Wright’s only synagogue,’ Delacroix said.
‘I didn’t know that,’ Byrne replied.
Jessica glanced at Delacroix as he rocked back on his heels a little. Byrne had him. She knew this the way she knew that Byrne knew full well that morsel of Frank Lloyd Wright minutiae.
‘If you don’t mind my asking, what cameras do you use?’ Byrne asked. ‘I’m shopping for one for my daughter. Totally clueless.’
Now they were in Delacroix’s wheelhouse. ‘I have a few,’ he said. ‘My go-to is a Nikon D60. It’s not the newest, but it’s never let me down.’
‘Nice,’ Byrne said. ‘Are you all digital now?’
Delacroix smiled. ‘No, I’m still hanging on to my AE-1.’
‘The old Canon?’
‘That’s the one.’
Jessica had a feeling she knew where her partner was going with this. She was right.
‘What about Polaroids?’ Byrne asked.
Delacroix shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I donated a pair of Polaroids to the city schools about ten years ago. Digital photography has really made all photography instant photography. I was only keeping them as artifacts anyway.’
Byrne just nodded. He glanced at Jessica, effectively tossing her the ball.
‘Mr Delacroix, we don’t want to take up any more of your time. So, just so we’re sure, you’re positive you’ve never met a man named Robert Freitag?’
‘I just can’t remember that name. I’m sorry.’
‘Would it surprise you to learn that, on an application for a position at CycleLife LLC, five years ago, Mr Freitag named you as an emergency contact?’
Delacroix looked shocked. ‘It would surprise me a great deal. I’m not sure why he would do that. I don’t know him.’
Jessica reached into her portfolio, and pulled out the fax they had been sent by Karen Jacobs. She handed it to Delacroix. He reached into one of his trouser pockets, retrieved an eyeglass case. He opened the case, slipped on his glasses, and his gaze began to move down the page.
‘It’s right at the bottom, Mr Delacroix,’ Jessica said.
Delacroix looked at the bottom of the page. He mumbled the last few lines until he got to his name and address. ‘Ah, okay. I see what happened here. This isn’t me.’
‘Sir?’
‘It says J. C. Delacroix. This is my sister: Joan Catherine.’
‘Your sister lives here?’
‘Yes. No. Well, she
used
to live here. It was right after her divorce, and she went back to her maiden name. I still get some of her mail.’
‘I take it that she never mentioned Mr Freitag to you, is that correct?’
‘No. But that’s not unusual. We don’t really move in the same circles.’
‘I see,’ Jessica said. She noticed a photograph on the wall next to the passageway to the kitchen. It was a picture of a younger James Delacroix and a woman, perhaps ten years older, who looked like a family member.
‘Is this your sister?’ Jessica asked, pointing to the photo.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That was taken in Atlantic City.’
‘It’s very important we speak with her. Do you have her contact information
‘Philadelphia born and bred,’ Byrne said. ‘Although I don’t get out to Elkins Park as much as I’d like to.’
Delacroix crossed the room. ‘I shot this at high noon. The sun was dead center, and cast no shadow.’
For the next few minutes, as the two men discussed the photographs, Jessica glanced around the living room and dining room. The space was nowhere near as Spartan as Robert Freitag’s living quarters. This place was sloppy, but comfortable – books stacked in a corner, remote controls on the couch, a rolled-up bag of Doritos rubber-banded on the coffee table. Through the opening into the kitchen Jessica saw a day’s worth of dishes in the sink. She looked at the steps leading to the second floor. They were being watched by a rather portly tabby cat. Jessica usually smelled cat litter, but her nose was still filled with the scent of compost from the backyard.
‘You know, Beth Sholom was Frank Lloyd Wright’s only synagogue,’ Delacroix said.
‘I didn’t know that,’ Byrne replied.
Jessica glanced at Delacroix as he rocked back on his heels a little. Byrne had him. She knew this the way she knew that Byrne knew full well that morsel of Frank Lloyd Wright minutiae.
‘If you don’t mind my asking, what cameras do you use?’ Byrne asked. ‘I’m shopping for one for my daughter. Totally clueless.’
Now they were in Delacroix’s wheelhouse. ‘I have a few,’ he said. ‘My go-to is a Nikon D60. It’s not the newest, but it’s never let me down.’
‘Nice,’ Byrne said. ‘Are you all digital now?’
Delacroix smiled. ‘No, I’m still hanging on to my AE-1.’
‘The old Canon?’
‘That’s the one.’
Jessica had a feeling she knew where her partner was going with this. She was right.
‘What about Polaroids?’ Byrne asked.
Delacroix shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I donated a pair of Polaroids to the city schools about ten years ago. Digital photography has really made all photography instant photography. I was only keeping them as artifacts anyway.’
Byrne just nodded. He glanced at Jessica, effectively tossing her the ball.
‘Mr Delacroix, we don’t want to take up any more of your time. So, just so we’re sure, you’re positive you’ve never met a man named Robert Freitag?’
‘I just can’t remember that name. I’m sorry.’
‘Would it surprise you to learn that, on an application for a position at CycleLife LLC, five years ago, Mr Freitag named you as an emergency contact?’
Delacroix looked shocked. ‘It would surprise me a great deal. I’m not sure why he would do that. I don’t know him.’
Jessica reached into her portfolio, and pulled out the fax they had been sent by Karen Jacobs. She handed it to Delacroix. He reached into one of his trouser pockets, retrieved an eyeglass case. He opened the case, slipped on his glasses, and his gaze began to move down the page.
‘It’s right at the bottom, Mr Delacroix,’ Jessica said.
Delacroix looked at the bottom of the page. He mumbled the last few lines until he got to his name and address. ‘Ah, okay. I see what happened here. This isn’t me.’
‘Sir?’
‘It says J. C. Delacroix. This is my sister: Joan Catherine.’
‘Your sister lives here?’
‘Yes. No. Well, she
used
to live here. It was right after her divorce, and she went back to her maiden name. I still get some of her mail.’
‘I take it that she never mentioned Mr Freitag to you, is that correct?’
‘No. But that’s not unusual. We don’t really move in the same circles.’
‘I see,’ Jessica said. She noticed a photograph on the wall next to the passageway to the kitchen. It was a picture of a younger James Delacroix and a woman, perhaps ten years older, who looked like a family member.
‘Is this your sister?’ Jessica asked, pointing to the photo.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That was taken in Atlantic City.’
‘It’s very important we speak with her. Do you have her contact information
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